The steely words effectively reduced Edward Buchanan’s grand plan to very small pieces. With his great chance fast disappearing downstream, he glanced wildly, first at Fanshawe and Cecily, and then at Hazelmere, Dorothea at his side, her hand still firmly held in his. ‘But the scandal…’ His voice trailed away as he encountered Hazelmere’s eyes.

‘I’m afraid, Buchanan, you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension.’ The tones were icy enough to chill the blood in Edward Buchanan’s veins. He suddenly recalled some of the other stories about Hazelmere. ‘The Misses Darent are on their way to visit Fanshawe’s and my families on our estates, escorted by their maid and coachman. Fanshawe and I were delayed in leaving town and so arranged to meet them here.’ There was a slight pause during which the hazel eyes calmly surveyed Mr Buchanan. ‘Are you suggesting there is anything in that which is at all…improper?’

Edward Buchanan paled. Thoroughly unnerved, he hastened to reassure the Marquis, the words fairly tripping from his tongue. ‘No, no! Of course not! Never meant to imply any such thing.’ One finger had gone to his neckcloth as if it was suddenly too tight. Retreat, disorderly or otherwise, seemed imperative. ‘It’s getting late. I must be away. Your servant, Misses Darent, my lords.’ With the sketchiest of bows he made for the door, slowing as he realised that Fanshawe still stood with his back to it. At a nod from Hazelmere, Fanshawe opened the door, allowing an agitated Edward Buchanan to escape.

Instantly the sounds of a hurried departure reached their ears. Then the main door of the inn slammed shut and all was quiet.

Inside the parlour the frozen tableau dissolved. Cecily openly threw herself into Fanshawe’s arms. Dorothea saw it and wished she could be similarly uninhibited. As things were, she felt barely capable of preserving her composure.

‘Oh, God! What a nincompoop!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Why’d you let him escape so easily?’

‘He’s not worth the effort,’ replied Hazelmere absentmindedly, his eyes searching Dorothea’s face. ‘Besides, as he said, he’d been misled.’

Dorothea, trying to look unconscious of his meaning and failing dismally, tried to steer the conversation into lighter fields. ‘Misled! I’ve been trying for weeks to get rid of him. If only I’d known!’ It suddenly dawned on her to wonder how Hazelmere had known. She felt strangely giddy.

Hazelmere saw her abstracted gaze. Noticing the assorted objects on the table, he seized on the distraction. ‘Have you been using the abominable Mr Buchanan for target practice?’

Dorothea, following his gaze, was diverted. ‘No. That was Cecily. But she only threw a vase of flowers at him.’

Looking to where she pointed, he saw the shards of the shattered vase. ‘Does she often throw things?’ he asked faintly.

‘Only when she’s angry.’

While he considered her answer Hazelmere picked up Dorothea’s cloak and draped it over her shoulders. ‘More to the point, does she hit anything?’

‘Oh, usually,’ Dorothea replied, strangely engrossed with the ties of the cloak. ‘She’s been doing it since she was a child, so her aim is really quite good.’

Glancing at Fanshawe, absorbed with Cecily, Hazelmere could not repress a grin of unholy amusement. ‘Do remind me, my love, to mention that to Tony some time. I should warn him of what he’s about to take on.’

Dorothea smiled nervously. Hazelmere reached around her to retrieve her gloves and handed them to her. Correctly interpreting his nod, she put them on. She looked up, to find his hazel eyes warmly smiling.

‘I think we should leave this inn forthwith. Aside from getting you and Cecily safely away, it’s by far too crowded for my liking.’

She smiled back, ignoring the little thrill of anticipation the words and tone drew forth, perfectly content to do whatever he wished, just as long as he continued to smile at her in that deliciously peculiar way. As usual, he had assumed command. But she could hardly argue with the efficient way he had got rid of Edward Buchanan. In the circumstances, she felt she could safely leave discussion of his managing ways until they had returned to London. There was still that interview to be endured, after which they would doubtless discuss what possibilities the future held. She reminded herself she still had no unequivocal proof of the nature of his feelings for her.

Hazelmere escorted Dorothea into the taproom, closely the followed by Fanshawe with Cecily. Seeing her chicks being ushered safely out, Betsy heaved a sigh of relief and came forward with Lang to hear their instructions.

Hazelmere consulted his watch. It was already close to four. In the curricle he could reach Hazelmere in just over an hour. The carriage would take closer to two. Dawn would be before six. He turned to Fanshawe with a grin. ‘I’ll leave you with the coach and Betsy, of course.’

Dorothea, who had moved with Cecily to reassure the clucking Betsy, looked up. Hazelmere smiled blandly back at her.

‘Yes, I thought you would,’ replied Fanshawe, disgusted at the thought of two hours’ frustrating travel with his love and her maid. ‘We’ll make directly for Eglemont. Cecily can see Hazelmere Water some other time. Preferably not at dawn, what’s more! To think I’m going to be saddled with this and I won’t even reap the rewards!’ He tried to scowl at his friend but could not resist the rueful laughter in the hazel eyes.

‘Never mind,’ replied Hazelmere, aware that Dorothea had missed little of their exchange. ‘I rather think I’ve got more to explain than you.’ He moved to Dorothea’s side and outlined the dispositions for the next phase of their journey. He accomplished this without explanation, and was about to lead Dorothea outside when she regained the use of her tongue.

‘But there’s no need for this at all! Couldn’t we simply go back to London?’ A long drive alone with Hazelmere had not figured in her plans.

Hazelmere stopped and sighed. ‘No.’

Dorothea waited for him to explain, but when instead he took her arm she stood her ground. ‘I realise it would not be wise for all of us to return together, but there’s no reason Cecily and I cannot go back in the carriage with Betsy, and you two can go down to your estates, then return to London later.’

Hazelmere caught the grin on Fanshawe’s face. It could hardly be missed; it was enormous. Noting the stubborn set of Dorothea’s chin and the flash of determination in her green eyes, he silenced her in the only effective way he knew. Under the bemused gazes of the innkeeper, Betsy, Lang, an intrigued and approving Cecily and a still grinning Fanshawe, he pulled her against him and kissed her. He did not stop until he judged her incapable of finding further words to argue with.

When Dorothea’s wits finally returned she was on the box-seat of Hazelmere’s curricle, the Marquis by her side, smartly heading his greys out of the inn yard, setting them on the road leading south. She glanced up at his profile, clearly visible in the bright moonlight. Her determination to force a clear declaration from him grew. Aside from anything else, if what had just occurred was any indication of how he planned to settle disagreements between them in future, unless there was some balance in their relationship, she would never win any arguments at all. Her mind made up, she reviewed her options.


* * *

The road between Tadworth and Dorking was narrow but otherwise in good condition. Which, reflected Hazelmere, was just as well. The hedges on either side cast shadows over the road, and despite the silvery moonlight he could not see far ahead. And his love would not remain silent for long. One glance as they left the inn had convinced him that she was merely gathering her forces. He glanced at her now and found her looking speculatively at him. Her brows rose in mute question.

He smiled back and returned his attention to his horses. He had no intention of initiating a conversation. Let her make the first move.

This was not long in coming. ‘Are you ever going to tell me just what has been going on?’

Thinking ‘No’ by far the safest answer, he regretfully settled for, ‘It’s a long story.’

‘How long before we reach Hazelmere?’

‘About an hour.’

‘Plenty of time to explain, then. Even with your greys in hand.’

‘But we have to reach Hazelmere Water before dawn.’

‘Why?’

Glancing down at her lovely, confused countenance, he smiled reassuringly. ‘Because that’s the supposed reason for this midnight jaunt, and so at least one of you, having been so insistent on seeing it, had better do so. Just in case someone like Sally Jersey, who has also seen it, asks for a description.’

Raising her eyes to his face, Dorothea asked in weary resignation, ‘Just what is this tale you’ve woven? You had much better tell me from the beginning if I’m supposed to convince the likes of Lady Jersey of the truth of it.’

Content to keep the conversation on relatively safe ground, Hazelmere obliged. He started by telling her what happened after she had left Merion House. ‘You’ll have to remember to make your peace with Ferdie.’

‘Was he terribly bothered?’

‘Incensed.’ He sketched the outline of the story, omitting to tell her that they were supposedly betrothed. He spent some minutes impressing on her the magnitude of Fanshawe’s and his sacrifices in saving Cecily’s and her reputations. Hearing her chuckle over Ferdie’s mission to spread the tale far and wide, he hoped he had diverted her mind from what he had not explained.

Recovering from her giggles, Dorothea mentally reviewed what she had heard, her eyes fixed on the offside horse. This midnight drive was possibly the best chance she would ever have of extracting information from Hazelmere. In normal circumstances, his physical presence was so distracting that it was a constant battle of mind against body to formulate sensible questions, let alone combat his evasive answers. But, since he was now perched on the box-seat beside her, his hands occupied with the reins and his attention divided between his horses and herself, the odds were more even. She would certainly have to encourage him to take her driving more often in future. Silent, they passed through Dorking and into the country lanes leading to Hazelmere. Bringing her gaze back to his face, she said in the most non-committal of tones, ‘What were the other notes Mr Buchanan had sent?’